Saraswati on a Sunday morning

All this living alone. This mug 
With my initials on it, scrubbed 
And put to dry 
On the kitchen slab. It waits for me. 
Looks happiest when filled up. 
I’m a bit sick of Maria – my 
Areca palm 
There by the bookshelf. She 
Dances. When it gets like this I 
Don’t know what to do with myself. 
Fridge then bed then a book. 
Laundry helps. I end up feeling useful. 
Now when Brahma comes 
I let him. More new books? 
He always picks one off the shelf. 
On good days 
He reads the blurb and 
Sits down. Otherwise it’s the bed straight. 
Highlights of a cricket match 
On his cell phone. Come
Let’s listen to a song. 
I want to sleep.

Evening

How can I describe what I’m unable to praise?
The birds are chirping in the low berry bush.
I don’t know who they are, they don’t know my name. An ambulance,
a siren, the emergency ward I’ve have identified just in case,
sitting at a marbled coffee table, marigolds in a vase. Green, leafy,
dying. God – I like to pretend you’re watching.
In this case, you are a man. It makes sense – I’m lonely.
The earth is not speaking back. The baby cries 
in its pram. The mother rocks the pram, hushing,
making her teeth large and shiny. The father smiles at me.
On the bridge, people are carried
in the body of a train, nodding like peonies.